


A Black Rose

by booksarenotboringyouare



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, more characters include gavroche's two little brothers, more characters may come in later idk, mostly post barricade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-05-20 14:51:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14896626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/booksarenotboringyouare/pseuds/booksarenotboringyouare
Summary: Montparnasse controls the Parisian streets at night.  Suave, elegant and murderous, little stands in his way.  But after a confrontation with an elderly man one night, he begins to evaluate his lifestyle.Then the Barricade falls, and decisions must be made much more quickly than he thought.





	1. Through the fog in the streets

“To become a villain is not easy. It’s easier to become an honest man.”

Montparnasse often found himself thinking back to those words, uttered to him in the middle of a grand spiel by an elderly man whom he had failed to rob one evening. The man was strong for his age, and spoke with equal power. He had even granted Montparnasse his purse, which had been pickpocketed from him not seconds later, to his shame.  
An honest man.  
Did such men exist? He didn’t think so, but maybe that was because he was as far from honest as it was possible to be without being a politician. A gamin by 5, a thief by 7, and a murderer by 18. He had chosen his path in life, and was not inclined to change now, not after everything. He was an addict. Not to drugs or to drink, but to wealth. Can someone be addicted to something they’ve never had, and most likely never will? The answer of course is yes, and Montparnasse was the prime example of this. What money he stole off people, living or dead, he invested into his appearance. On his back, he wore the finest coats in Paris. Long, black and expensive to even the richest, he was immeasurably proud of his appearance. 

-

“Will you join in our crusade? Who will be strong and– “.

Montparnasse rolled his eyes as he swiftly slid down another Paris back alley, briefly catching sight of a protest or gathering of some sort occurring in the square. These events were becoming more and more commonplace, and there were rumours of rebellion spreading like wildfire through the cobbled streets of Paris. Of course, Montparnasse himself had no intention of galivanting around a doomed barricade, with the National Guard on high alert from each angle. He knew, however, that the young street urchin, Gavroche, was eager to join in on the proceedings.  
Although loathe to admit it, the death of the urchin would certainly have a negative impact on his life. Who else would willingly climb walls or scale buildings or crawl through tunnels for him? The Patron-Minette would be in a real bother if the young lad were to expire at the barricade, and their business would most definitely falter.

“Oi! Rose petal! OI! Over ‘ere!”  
Speak of the Devil.

Grumpily fixing the rose attached to his breast pocket, Montparnasse glided over to where Gavroche was hunkered on top of a dilapidated wall, a cheeky grin plastered on his face. The boy was short for his age, which proved a massive advantage to the band of criminals. Despite his obvious youth, however, he was well able to act as mature as he needed. A crinkled rosette was pinned onto his filthy shirt, and in its tri-colour glory, stood out against the dull and drab colours of the gamin’s attire.  
“Well now Gavroche, do inform me of your sightings, I am a busy man, you know, so keep it quick.”

“Busy boy more like, you’re hardly older than me! Give and get respect, Enjolras says, unless it’s to a Guardsman!”. The boy gave a triumphant swing of his arm at this, as if his astounding piece of wisdom should have been applauded. Unfortunately, he knocked Montparnasse’s quite expensive hat off in doing so.  
“Ridiculous gamin! Tell me what it was you saw, and hurry, or else you will wake up tomorrow minus food, money, and clothes!”

The threat only served to amuse Gavroche, who chuckled heartily into the thinning fog of early morning.   
“You say you’ll take my food, I say I don’t have any! No meal planning here, Monsieur, not one bit. My breakfast comes from the outdoor tables of the fine cafés along the posh streets. My lunch comes from the backdoor of market stalls, and my dinner from the scraps I’ve collected throughout the day. You’ll take my food? You’ll have to find it first, Monsieur! You say you’ll take my money, I say I don’t have any! What’s the use of money for a gamin? What I need, I steal and what I want, I need. You’ll take my money? You’ll have to find it first, Monsieur! You say you’ll take my clothes, I’ll admit I have some. But Monsieur, what I have I wear! My winter shirt gets opened up make my summer top. My autumn trousers get rolled up to make my spring shorts. My vest stays on regardless, as much a part of me as the hair on my head. And my shoes? Stolen from the rich kids who take them off to paddle in the fountain. What fools they are! You’ll take my clothes? All’s I have are the clothes on my back, and I promise you, Monsieur, if you touch my clothes, your bourgeoise coat is getting dunked in the Seine! So, yes, take my food and take my money and take my clothes. But I guarantee you I’ll still be standing here tomorrow, no worse for wear!”

“Oh, for Goodness sake, just tell me what it was you saw.”  
Gavroche relented, and with an exaggerated sigh began to tell his tale.  
“There were seven of ‘em. All dressed in black, but two was girls and one a kid. They went in and before the quarter hour they were out again, their clothes blacker with blood. I’ll tell you something, ‘Parnasse, they were quick as lightning. They’d give you an’ your gang a run for your money on a good day!”  
At this Montparnasse leaned his back against the wall and clenched his fists. Seven of them. Seven newbie criminals robbing the very shop that they were planning to loot. Ridiculous, insulting! Four men, two bitches and a gamin. He had built himself quite a reputation in the Parisian streets at nightfall, and he wasn’t going to have a gaggle of amateur thieves destroy that. With a sigh he faced Gavroche once again.  
“Thank you, Gavroche. Now scram, I have a lot of thinking to do.”  
“Don’t do too much ‘a that, you might hurt yourself!”  
With a gleeful mock salute Gavroche went running toward the square, up to a gathering of young students, and through the gaps in the roaring crowd Montparnasse could see him waving a little red flag with all his might.

“Rather his death than mine, though.”, was Montparnasse’s final thought before swooping further into the darkness of Paris’ back streets. These winding alleys were more of a home to him than any bed. In the darkness was where he thrived.  
Out of the corner of his eye he saw a figure shooting past the square, trying to catch up with Gavroche’s enthusiastic little rebel gang. His eyes lingered a second however, on the running boy. For a little while there, Montparnasse was sure that he had seen that face before. Those features were definitely ones he recognised. Éponine’s face flashed in front of his eyes before he shook his head and carried on. Why on earth would Ép be at the square with those boys? Nonsense.  
He continued into the darkness.

“- There is a life about to start when tomorrow comes!”.

-  
“As the dark ascends, the light pretends, that everything’s alright. As the clock chimes, the sun won’t shine, at midday or midnight. As the- “ 

Montparnasse stopped his lackadaisical mummering of a childhood rhyme as a figure emerged from the thick darkness, broad and tall with the stench of trouble.   
The man’s silhouette gave no clues about his appearance, and even after the dull light shone on the older man’s wrinkled face Montparnasse was none the wiser as to who this mysterious stranger was. He seemed familiar though, as if he had seen the man before. In a dream perhaps? No, this man looked to be the stuff of nightmares. He wore a long navy coat, which framed his wide, daunting figure perfectly. In his right hand, he held a baton, menacing and black, so tightly that his knuckles turned deathly white. Montparnasse’s eyes moved up the man slowly, scanning his enemy. He noticed a shining police badge upon his breast, bearing the sign of the Parisian Police Force, his greatest threat. It seemed to gleam horrifically in the choking darkness of the Parisian underworld. Montparnasse’s eyes raised further to the man’s face, which was old and wrinkled and framed with mammoth sideburns. The quickly greying hair atop his head was pulled fiercely back into a ponytail, and a hat sat perched upon his mane. With a sly grin, Montparnasse realised that his hat was bigger.

“Step into the light, young man. I believe I recognise your face.”  
His voice had a light growl to it, but a dark gravelly sound accompanying it. Although his lean face did not display it, Montparnasse was slightly unnerved by the man’s presence.  
And yet, despite his feeling of unease, he had to repress a biting laugh. The last time an elderly man had asked him to step into the light, it was in a much more… metaphorical sense.  
“And I believe I recognise yours, Inspector Javert.”

The older man gave a start, and made to walk forward, before deciding better of it.  
“On behalf of the Parisian Police Force- “  
“Not so fast Inspector, I have places to be and people to see. As a busy man yourself, you surely must relate.” Montparnasse smirked in the darkness and turned to leave. His mind was still preoccupied by the Gamin’s news of a competing gang haunting his game. There would have to be a meeting of the Patron-Minette, and soon he decided. The schoolboys were playing at revolution tomorrow evening, so it would have to be prior to nightfall on the fifth.   
Before he could exit the alley, a baton came upon his upper arm, soft yet commanding. The low, menacing voice of Javert pierced through the fog.  
“I am giving you one minute my boy, before I shall be forced to take drastic measures. You are a member of an underground gang, aren’t you lad? Which one? I’ll promise you this, any information you provide now will significantly lessen your galley time.” The police inspector looked pleased at this, as if he had thoroughly cornered Montparnasse in a straight alley. The younger man started to plan his escape; three lefts, two rights and a wall climb from here, when he thought better of it.  
“Which one? What on earth do you mean by that?”  
The Patron-Minette control the underground. Of course, there are other gangs, but no so prolific that they have captured the attention of Javert. Montparnasse’s mind swung back again to the Gamin’s words and cursed lightly under his breath.   
“Four men, two women and a child? Is that the gang which you seek?”, he asked Javert, an angry undertone to his graceful accent.  
“Yes.”  
“I am, myself, not a part of this gang, but I have been… reliably informed that they have fled to the outer city, gone west, after being spotted looting their latest target.”  
“And why should I trust you, Montparnasse?”

He knows my name, Montparnasse thought, in a fleeting moment of panic.  
“My dear Inspector, I want this gang gone as much as you do. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, after all.”  
Javert’s eyes blazed in anger and wildly reached for his handcuffs, but not before Montparnasse grinned wickedly, and without making a sound ducked under Javert’s baton, whipped around to the direction of the main street and hopped aboard the back of a passing carriage, flicking his rose to a girl walking nearby.

“YOU CAN’T RUN FOREVER, BOY!”

No, Montparnasse thought, but I can run long enough that by the time you discover that I have lied I will be well out of your way.  
And besides, you could die at the Barricade tomorrow, everyone could.

But not me, he said to himself.

An honest man. A villain.

He couldn’t figure out which was which anymore.


	2. Street Urchins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Night of the Barricade has arrived at last, and Montparnasse discovers some unexpected news.

Gavroche was running through the square, wind flying through his unruly hair, rough as a wave at sea. He passed each of the Amis, waving and saluting and laughing with them. This, Gavroche decided, was where he belonged. He danced in and out between the masses of people. He stole a pastry here, a purse there. Nothing too much. Enjolras sometimes frowned upon his light theft. It didn’t matter much to Gavroche though; Enjolras was fighting for a better future, that future hadn’t arrived yet, so his necessary robbery would have to continue, sorry. When he imparted this logic upon the Amis, they laughed merrily and ruffled his hair, and he felt like a giant. He spotted Enjolras handing out pamphlets beside Courfeyrac, who was talking to someone he couldn’t quite place. Down the street he saw some of the older boys rallying the more reluctant people. All around him, exciting things were happening, events were taking place, history being put in motion. It gave him goosebumps on his arms and the hair on the back of his neck stood taller than any Guardsman.

Enjolras said that the Barricade would rise tonight. He had to be quick.

He dashed back to his home, the big elephant overlooking Paris. He couldn’t remember living in an actual house, though he supposed he must have at some point. He knew his parents, though he prefers Montparnasse’s company when dealing with his father’s underground exploits.

The elephant was built 19 years ago, according to Combeferre. Gavroche loved it as if it were his own home, and the gamin had built a tidy little life for himself inside of it. The elephant sheltered him from rain and hail, sleet and snow. (And provided very safe refuge from one or two choice Parisian police officers).

“Boys! Come out here! Boys!” Gavroche called for the two little urchins he had taken into his life. He didn’t know their names, but he had sworn to protect them and teach them the ways of the street. They were painfully innocent, green as grass and not half as sturdy. They didn’t talk much, but were great listeners, perfectly content to sit down through Gav’s endless chatter. He often wondered if they had parents who were out looking for them, searching every nook and cranny in France, but the boys would have mentioned by now, so he continued to look after them.

They weren’t answering his calls however, and with an exasperated sigh, Gavroche began to climb up to his humble abode. The climb was familiar to him now, having made it dozens of times. From the top of the elephant he could see Paris stretch out below. He could see the people milling about, the men rushing in their fancy hats, the women with their flowing skirts, and the children with their easy smiles. Gavroche envied their laughter sometimes, the way it fell from mouths which were never deprived of food. Mostly Gavroche just laughed straight back at them, pretending to be a part of whatever joke they’re in on.

“BOYS!”, he yelled, anxious of all the time this was taking. “Come on now! I ‘ave to say goodbye now cause I won’t be back tonight. I don’t think I’ll see either of you till the day after tomorrow at earliest!”.

Still no answer. Grumbling, he poked his head inside of the section he called his bedroom, where he had instructed the boys to stay put. There was no sign of them. No shoes or clothes or even crumbs from their breakfast. It was as if they had never even been there. 

Gavroche stared unblinkingly for a second, then shook his head sadly.

“Au revoir, boys.”

-

“CANONS!”

Montparnasse had tried to get as far away as he could from the Barricade, not risking getting caught up in the violence that was guaranteed to ensue. However, not even he could remain deaf to the fire of an army’s weapons. The shout and resulting bangs rang in his ears, and he clenched his fists. He glanced up to the sky, to the unending gallery of lights above. There were no clouds tonight, he thought bitterly. A perfect night for dying. 

Montparnasse was lounging in a nook of a side street, resting his tired body on part of a collapsed wall. His left foot, clad in an upmarket leather boot, was resting against the stone, his posture in a perfected mirage of confidence. The candle light of a nearby building just missed his figure, so anyone walking by would barely see a phantom of a man. ‘The Ghost of Paris’ Back Streets’ someone once called him. He had to admit, he enjoyed that one.

He would have to meet with Claquesous, Babet, and Gueulemer soon. He had spied the latter two around the city that morning retreating into inns or holes, but Claquesous was no-where to be found. Grinding his teeth, Montparnasse pushed himself off the dilapidated wall, and delved deeper into the underground.

Claquesous was a creature of the night. Some people say he fed on darkness rather than food and drank blood over wine. A peasant’s tale, but uncomfortably close to the truth. His favourite riddle was ‘How do you find a shadow in the darkness?’. Montparnasse could safely say he would give up many a fine chemise for an answer on his companion’s whereabouts. Come to think of it, Montparnasse brooded, as he strolled, he hadn’t seen Thénardier since the barricade rose either. Perhaps he perished. Or perhaps he’d retreated to the sewers. Yes, that seemed the more likely option. Thénardier was always more comfortable doing the dirty work of villainy. Blood stains would not show up on the black cloth of an expensive coat, but sewer shit would.

Then, once again, he spied someone out of the corner of his eye. Éponine, perhaps? No, wishful thinking on his part. And anyways, he reasoned with himself, he and Ép had not parted on the best of terms.

_I'm not the daughter of a dog, since I'm the daughter of a wolf. There are six of you, what matters that to me? You are men. Well, I'm a woman. You don't frighten me. I tell you that you shan't enter this house, because it doesn't suit me. If you approach, I'll bark. I told you, I'm the dog, and I don't care a straw for you. Go your way, you bore me! Go where you please, but don't come here, I forbid it! You can use your knives. I'll use kicks; it's all the same to me, come on!_

That speech echoed in Montparnasse’s head. He had warned her twice to be careful of his knife that evening, only for her to out sharp him with her words. He rolled his shoulders and muttered nothings to himself. The Thénardier bitch no more matters to him now than the dirt beneath his shoe. He didn’t want her, certainly didn’t _need_ her.

“How come I don’t believe that then?”

Montparnasse whipped around so quickly he had to hold onto his hat lest it fall from his crown. In front of him was the figure from his eye, and with a bitter laugh he noted that he was not far wrong with his guess of Éponine.

The girl who stood in front of him had a mass of tangled curls, and the same brown skin of her sister. A pretty little slip of a thing, if it were not for that she hadn’t a thought in her head besides her father’s whims and wishes. She wore a ripped black dress and brown leather boots with the soles nearly unattached. Her blood red shawl gave her no more warmth than the cold night air beating down on her. Her hands were bandaged sloppily, and her body was a canvas of scrapes and bruises. Azelma Thénardier was a victim of Paris’ cruelty, no more and no less, and Montparnasse had no time for her this evening.

“Away now, Azelma, or I’ll tell daddy dearest that you’ve been wandering the streets at night. At night there are murders my dear, killings and beatings and stealings. Best run along back to Éponine, child, at night there are frightful happenings.”

Her face wore a grin and her eyes mirrored it.

“I’m not a child anymore and I don’t give a damn what you say. Pops says I’m to make sure the east sewers are empty - we’re winning the game tonight, Montparnasse, you better believe it. And what of my sister? Fathers all but disowned her, but I know he’ll change his mind when she returns, and so I shan’t worry myself abou’ it. Just admit it, you’re only jealous cause I ‘ave a lot more things going than you do right now. More’s the money for me and mine. So, you stay away from my sister and fuck off if you please.”

“Hey now, YOU approached ME, and – “

Montparnasse stopped dead in his sentence and turned on his heel to look her straight in the eye.

“When she returns? Where’s she gone?”

“Didn’t you hear? ‘Ponine’s gone dressed as some boy, Claquesous told me. And he him self’s off posing as some workman. Mad little world we live in, ‘Parnasse, I’ll tell you that.”

“To the barricade?”, he asked gripping Azelma’s skinny upper arm. “Azelma, answer me, has she gone to the Barricade?”

“Where else?”

Something flickered in Azelma’s hardened eyes, and with a sad smile she took off down the street. Montparnasse could only stand there, eyes trailing after the younger Thénardier girl, heart in his stomach and stomach in knots.

That blasted barricade.

It could take everything from him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is up before Sunday, but I just couldn't wait! Next chapter coming next week


	3. Barricade Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On a warm night in June, the Barricade fell, and those who are left must pick up the pieces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to upload!!

Montparnasse changed his mind several times as he slowly walked down the abandoned boulevard.

At first, in an early-morning flash of stupidity, he forgot about the Barricade. He spent a good few moments wondering where everyone was, why the windows and doors of all the painfully dilapidated buildings were all boarded up. He nearly hit himself when he remembered, and promptly turned on his heel to stalk off, wanting nothing less than to be caught up in the schoolboy’s mummer’s farce.

Then he remembered Thénardier’s cackling words from a few weeks previous;  
“My boy, the dead don’t mind when you pick a pocket of two. Or ten.”  
His grin after that showed his black and rotting teeth, a window to Thénardier’s black and rotting soul.

Montparnasse then decided to continue on to the Barricade, expecting quite a few dead, and perhaps a few nearly-deads, in which case he could help them along and reap his rewards.

The next three times he began and subsequently stopped walking were all in relation with his upcoming job, a small heist on a nearby jewellers, an easy target to be fair, but should he run the risk of getting recognised at the Barricade before the job? Fuck it, he decided finally, and stalked up toward the end of the boulevard where all the action was last night.

The final time he nearly turned around was because he didn’t want to throw up on any of the bodies.

They were all lined up, lying down on the harsh cobblestones, forever sleeping in pools of blood. Some had bullet wounds in the heads, other in their chests, others were covered in so much red that it was hard to see where the wound was. Some had closed eyes, never to open again. Worse however, were the boys whose eyes remained open, no one having bothered to close them yet. Montparnasse didn’t know if he was seeing things in the moment, but it was almost as if the panic and fear in those open eyes were piercing though him.

Montparnasse recognised some of them. Not all, but some. Broken reading glasses. A bald head. Long red-blonde hair.  
A few he knew by name, even. Everybody in Paris knew of the Enjolras boy. Women had taken to him quickly, but rumour had it he took no part in any of it. Montparnasse looked down at him. Golden hair streaked with blood, falling in a broken halo around his head. He looked oddly peaceful in death, eyes mercifully closed, facing another boy with unruly black curls and a green cravat. He could see from their wounds that they had both been shot at close range.

They were his age, a but older maybe. Dead.

Montparnasse had ended lives before. Taken pleasure in it, even. But this…

He swooped along the line, hands clasped tightly behind his back, knuckles digging into the lush fabric of his overcoat. There were people milling around, women scrubbing blood from the street, guardsmen patrolling the area, families silently walking over to claim the bodies. The bodies on the far end of the boulevard were the ones who had perished first. Montparnasse couldn’t make them out at first, but as he came closer, horrific realisation dawned on him.

Lying there, bullet wound in her stomach, eyes shut and a sad smile tugging at her blue lips, with tangled hair poking out of her stupid hat.

Éponine

Oh god.

_Éponine_

Montparnasse slowly shrunk down, kneeling in puddles of blood and oh god, please let them be someone else’s, he thought. Don’t let me be kneeling in her blood.  
He tentatively reached out his gloved hand and stroked her forehead. She had a scar there from when she was nine and she had been racing through the halls of some fancy hotel on a dare before trying, and failing, to climb down from the second story window. She had spots there, and a couple bruises. Her face was covered in freckles, and there was one on the tip of her nose. He had never noticed that one before.   
Her hands were calloused and scraped, her nails broken and dirty. Her clothes were ripped and filthy and were wrinkled from a shower of rain.  
She was as far from perfect as it was possible to be. Montparnasse spent his entire life trying to be perfect. His entire life.  
But as he removed his leather gloves and reached for her hat, he realised it didn’t matter now. Once someone’s dead it didn’t matter what clothes they wore. Éponine could have been wearing a dress from the court of King Louis himself but the bullet still would have kissed the skin beneath.  
He would have to find Azelma. She would claim the body.

Montparnasse clutched her hat with white knuckles and stood up. He didn’t care if it were selfish, the hat was his now, his only reminder of the girl he-

He didn’t love her. Éponine was a lot of things to him, but he didn’t fall in love with the Thénardier bitch. They spent many a night together, they joked and screamed at each other. Montparnasse said he hated her to her face more times than he said he liked her.

He didn’t love her, and she certainly didn’t love him. But maybe…

He shook his head. In death there were no maybes. 

-

“You.”

Montparnasse twirled around, reaching for the knife up his coat sleeve.

“Stop it, boy. I want no more blood spilled on this ground.”, the weary voice continued.

Montparnasse looked up into the slightly manic eyes of Inspector Javert with a tired grin.

“Fair enough, Monsieur. If you would, could you not arrest me? I haven’t done anything illegal yet today, chaining me now would give you a rather unfair head start.”

The Inspector for once looked sympathetic and seemed to contemplate reaching out his hand to place on Montparnasse’s shoulder. He glanced over to where the dead guardsmen were lying, and Montparnasse’s eyed trailed after his. 

“Sources have told me that you knew the gamin. You can take the body if you wish, and um, bury it.”

Montparnasse’s eyes finally locked onto the little corpse.

“No.”

“If you don’t bury him we are preparing a mass burial for all unclaimed bodies- “

“No! I’ll fucking bury him. I just – I - I don’t – he – “

Javert nodded solemnly and turned to leave, before stopping again.

“Where does the sewer exit? This sewer tunnel here. The Seine, right?”

Montparnasse was on autopilot and nodded in affirmation.

As Javert took his leave, Montparnasse began to walk over to the body. His posture as perfect as ever, his face a mask of cool indifference. Before he knew it, he was looming over him. 10 years old, maybe younger? Montparnasse didn’t know. His hair was matted to his head and his little fingers clutching ammunition.

Gavroche. Dead.

The words didn’t sound right together in Montparnasse’s mind. They sounded foreign, wrong, and yet.

Dead.

Montparnasse had plenty of experience of carrying dead bodies. Most of whom he had created himself. But as he picked Gavroche up, cradling the little, light body in his arms, he knew nothing. He felt younger than Gavroche, a lost little boy on the streets of Paris, clutching a toy to his chest. Gavroche’s head tipped back, and Montparnasse quickly supported it, and stared at its lifelessness. He held the little gamin’s hand, squeezing it, but he knew Gavroche would not respond, would never respond. He felt his breath quicken and his eyes twitch. He had to get Gavroche home first, to the blasted elephant. Montparnasse knew he had a blanket there, he slept over it in summer and under it in winter.

Now he’d be buried in it.

Montparnasse started walking.

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave your thoughts, I have the next chapter nearly finished and can be posted next Sunday. :)


End file.
